Stealing the Bride 'Allegedly'
by Domicile
Summary: If I thought four years apart and every bad thing I’ve done in that time would stop me from feeling the heartbreak from these words, I was wrong. Cam, probably


Something in my life failed. Something just broke, like a radio station that used to be crystal clear and now just fizzles noise. Or maybe it never was as clear as I thought.

You never realize how hard it is to be an adult. Being a kid is the simplest thing in the world. Getting in trouble when you're a child doesn't hold the same repercussions as when you're an adult. I think I felt mostly shock the first time I was locked up. Not remorse, not fear, but surprise. I was actually being punished with a prison sentence. I'd stolen from people lots of times as a kid, but I always got what would equate to a slap on the wrist. A warning, a timeout. Suspension. They don't have those for adults. I wish I were a kid again, playing around, having fun. Being held only partially responsible for my criminal urges. Doing iCarly, spending time with the best friends I used to have. Can you believe it? Twenty-three and already spending most of my time living in the past.

"You're free to go."

When cops say 'free' when they release you from their custody, they don't actually mean 'free' as we all think of it. They mean you can be where you want to be, think what you want to think, but step out of bounds for one second and they'll slap metal back around your wrists and its all over. All good things must come to an end, otherwise no one would ever truly appreciate anything, I guess. I never truly appreciated my life until I was sitting in a cell having someone named Trick jab at my shoulder. That's life, so fucking ironic.

It's cold outside, to be expected for the beginning of March. March 3rd, Tuesday. My thirty-day sentence is finally over. Thank the heavens, or gods, or whatever the hell made it over. Thank time. Oh, and thank whoever for direct deposit. If not for that, I wouldn't have anywhere to go home to.

The streets of Seattle are a blur of lights and sound and people. I shove my hands deep in my pockets as I cross the street away from King County Jail. Never good to pickpocket people within a stone's throw of cops' home base. Plus, I'm not going to do that again. Done with it. I kind of hate jail. Its time I start making an honest living. Sure, Puckett, just keep telling yourself that.

Night has fallen by the time I reach the liquor store two blocks from my apartment. Luckily I can still drink during my time on probation. Even if I have to have counseling and meet up with my probation officer every month. His name is Jim something. Counseling. How stupid. Of course I have a fucked up life. I don't need it burned into my retinas. I think the hardest part of everything will be staying out of trouble for the entire year. If I get cuffs around my wrists anytime in the next year I'm back in prison for six months, no questions asked. I like being free, but I guess we're never really free. Liquor stores have even more restrictions on them than I do. I can see it in the cashier's eyes. They look tired and weary. Its like he's waiting to be robbed. Its okay, dude, I'm not going to steal from you. Well, not tonight.

"Is this all?" He rasps out, scraping his stringy brown hair back from his wrinkled face, staring up at me with watery eyes.

I look over my pick of the cheapest rum here. Rum isn't usually my choice drink, but I'm just looking to knock myself out. I'm not worrying about taste. It all burns anyway. "Yeah." I mutter in a quick response, but he's already ringing it up and stretching a hand out for the few crisp bills I've pulled out of my pocket. That's it. I'm officially broke.

"Enjoy." He says, closing the register and picking at a scab on his arm, forgetting I'm even still present. I don't think there's a person alive who gets drunk because they're happy. If I had any joy in my life I wouldn't be purchasing a synthetic version.

The metal sounds sharp and raw as I shove my key into the lock of my apartment. I haven't been home in over a month. It's so odd to think of the time that's passed while I'm locked up. Life was still happening while I was in a cell. Nothing shows it more than the science experiments that were originally purchased for consumption incubating in my refrigerator. The living room and single bedroom are thinly layered in dust and other debris siphoned out of the air. I want nothing more than to kick off my shoes and drop onto the ugly brown couch I bought because I couldn't afford anything better, but bugs are probably living in it by now. I should really clean up. I don't, though. I pop open the rum and take a swig. It burns all the way down, like I knew it would. Like I was hoping it would.

I don't know what happened with my life. Everything was going great, than it stopped. I'm lying. I know what happened. I fell for her. The one person who was keeping me floating up in society. I wanted her more than anything. So when she started dating that guy, I forget his name, Aiden, I started distancing myself. It didn't matter that she broke it off with Aiden after six months. He was only the first of many. I wasn't going to be included in the list, let alone be the final name on it. I wasn't for consideration. I was the best friend and nothing more, never. My mother was smart when she said this girl was the only thing standing between me and a life of crime. With every new guy, I pulled further out until we barely saw each other. Until it was just those mass texts people send out with jokes. Until I wasn't even on her list of contacts anymore.

My bedroom is a mess: cluttered with everything from clothing to old newspapers and crumpled up letters I meant to send her, but never did because I'm a coward. My living room doesn't look much more appetizing for a resting place. The couch is covered in junk I don't recognize including a gooey substance that might be soured milk, kind of smells like it, but also might be nuclear waste. I take another long drink of rum. Maybe if I get drunk enough, I won't care. I wander back into my bedroom and shove at the garbage towering on the bed. Some of it slides off; some of it seems to be containing living creatures and jiggles angrily. There's no way around it, I'm going to have to sort some of it out. For the next half an hour, I toss things into three piles in the living room: garbage, clothes, and unknown. I've never been happier to see ridiculously dirty sheets. I didn't sleep for shit in jail, though, so I couldn't care less tonight. The bottle of rum is half empty, my head is clouding over, and all I want to do is go to sleep. Or puke. Sleep is more hygienic, though, even if it wouldn't make a difference in this place.

Maybe I'll make a fresh start of things tomorrow. I'll spend the morning cleaning my apartment, go to the Laundromat and get all of my clothes washed. Go grocery shopping. Go see Jim. Go see my new therapist on Thursday. I'll be good. I'm completely capable of leading a good life. She had nothing to do with how I chose to live my life. Nothing. I can do it all by myself.

Who are you kidding, Puckett?

**---**

The world is so loud. Its like the bass at a Cuddlefish concert is pounding into my head. I inhale deeply into my sheets, which is a mistake because they smell how I will when I've been in the ground for a couple of months. I pull back, hacking up my lungs to get the smell out of my head. Bad idea, since a headache decided to erupt behind my eyes. I feel like my head is splitting open. Fucking pounding. I drop back down flat to apply as much pressure to my head through my fingers as possible. It doesn't do anything to ebb the pain, but it makes me feel like I'm moving in the forward direction. What the hell is with the pounding?

"Sam! Let me in, Sam!"

Oh, the pounding isn't in my head. Some jackass is actually pounding on my door this early in the morning. I slide off the side of my bed to be as far away from the window and sunlight before I squint my eyes open enough to see the clock. Just after eleven. So maybe it isn't that early. I risk a glance towards the window, as if I could see whoever's at my door through it, only to realize it isn't bright out at all. This is Seattle, and rain is pouring down outside.

"Sam! Come on, Sam! I'm getting soaked out here!"

I crawl, dragging most of my weight on my elbows, into the living room. Who the hell wants to see me? Who knows I'm out? I didn't tell anyone I had probation instead of a whole six months. No one should know I'm no longer in jail. Like that matters now. I'm already awake, they are still at the door, and my carpet smells like I burned flesh on it before I took off for thirty days and the flesh soaked in. I struggle to my feet to escape it, gulping in dust-clogged air. I really need to clean this place. I stumble over to the door and pull it open to a face I recognize. A face from a previous life.

"Its about time, Sam."

Brown hair, dark eyes. Wrinkles that weren't there when I knew him personally. Tall, lanky body dressed in jeans and a yellow rain slicker. "Spencer Shay?"

He looks around my apartment with his nose wrinkled in disgust. "Maybe I was better off in the rain."

"What are you doing here?" I question, my heart jumping into my throat to add to the earth-shattering jolt going through my head. My nerves feel like they're on fire. I shut the door and lean into it to maintain my balance.

"What happened to you?" He asks instead of answering my question and begins to give himself a tour. "This place is a mess!" He strides into the kitchen and peaks into the refrigerator. "There isn't even anything edible!"

I slap a hand to my forehead, hoping that'll take the edge off. It doesn't. "What are you doing here?" I ask again as he rejoins me in the living room. "I haven't seen you in what? Four years?"

He shrugs. "Something like that. Did someone die in here? What is that smell?"

"I don't know!" I yell at him, but immediately regret it. Loud noise doesn't feel so good on my eardrums right now. I drop my voice to a whisper, and start again. "I don't know. I just got back last night. I was going to clean today."

"Why are you whispering?" He questions, mimicking my volume level.

"Because I have a massive hangover." I tell him honestly.

He frowns at me like a disapproving father. "Sam."

"I'm an adult." I tell him sternly. "I can do whatever the hell I want to."

He ignores me and, instead of responding, circles my apartment once more. He comes back to me with a smile on his face, like taking that walk around to get in the view improved his mood. "You want me to help you clean?"

Even though I have no idea why Spencer Shay suddenly showed up at my door, and he doesn't seem to want to tell me, I let him hang out at my place for the next four hours and help me clean. I even let him by me some ibuprofen and treat me to lunch. We don't talk much. He doesn't seem to want to enlighten me on his sudden return to my life, and I don't really want to tell him how I've been whiling away the last four years. As we edge closer to four o' clock, I know I'm going to have to say something, though. If I don't get over to see my probation officer asap, I'll have much bigger problems than him knowing how much I've failed at life.

My apartment doesn't look so bad, now that its been disinfected. For the first time in years, all my clothing is washed and put away, I have clean sheets on my bed, and food actually meant to be used for sustenance in my refrigerator. We're sitting on the couch, staring at the wall where a television was a month ago, but now is bare. I never thought I would have such an awkward silence with Spencer Shay. I spent so much of my childhood hanging out at his house, this kind of moment seemed impossible. He was like my older brother. It's scary how much has changed since I last saw him. He knows I do bad things. So why is it so hard for me to tell me I have to go see Jim?

"Hey, Spencer," I say softly after I clear my throat. My words seem to echo throughout the apartment, causing my stomach to recoil. We've been heading towards this moment all day, though. Maybe we've been heading towards this moment for four years.

"Yeah?" He slips his head to the side to look at me with that intense, caring look he always gave me growing up and I hate that he can still look at me like that when he doesn't even know me anymore.

"Why are you here?" It's only the third time I've asked him today, but I feel like I've been pushing him to tell me for hours. Not that I don't deserve to know.

He doesn't answer me for several minutes. His eyes roam around my apartment, spending long moments focused on the door and focused on me. I want him to stop staring, to stop analyzing, but mostly, I want him to answer my question because I can't come up with any reason why he'd show up at my apartment out of the blue after four years and just want to hang out.

"What happened to you, Sam?" He asks instead of answering. "It took me forever to find you. I had Freddie do some serious digging online since your mother got married and changed her last name. Then she wasn't even sure where you were. It was like you fell off the face of the earth. I guess it was kind of lucky for me that you've been arrested, so your address is in public records."

I stare at him with my jaw hanging on its hinges with everything I don't want to tell him. I don't want to tell him because if he knows, he could tell her. And if she knows… Well, she can't know. She can never know how much I've screwed up without her around. "Yeah." Is all I manage to get out.

"Then I wasn't even sure if you'd be here when I got here." He shrugs heavily. "You've never really been one to hang out at your own house."

I smile weakly at him, letting my eyes dart to the clock. I have to catch the bus in seven minutes or I'll never make it on time to the probation office. "Yeah, I'm some kind of girl. So why are you here?"

He digs his teeth into his bottom lip, rubbing his hands together. "Well, its kind of a long story."

"Can you make it short?"

He lowers his eyebrows at me. "What?"

"Well, I kind of have somewhere to be at four, and if I don't catch the bus in like five minutes, I won't make it on time." I explain. There's no reason I have to tell him where I'm going.

"Oh." He stares down at his shoes. "Well, the short version then." Its like something inside him knows how badly I'm going to take what he's about to say, since he's looking at me like I might crack and shatter as soon as the words have left his mouth. "She's getting married." He says shortly. "Carly's getting married. Next month."

I blink dumbstruck at him. If I thought four years apart and every bad thing I've done in that time would stop me from feeling the heartbreak from these words, I was wrong. She was my everything for so many years; I guess it really will never end. She was the one holding me up. The electrical charge shooting through my veins. My self control. I was so in love with her. With Carly Shay. Apparently I still am. Damn it.

"Oh." I mutter, averting my eyes and folding my hands together.

He nods. "I asked her what she wanted for a wedding present. That's why I'm here."

I frown at him. "You searched for me because you need my help to find her a wedding present?"

He shakes his head. "No, I searched for you because you _are_ the wedding present. She said the only thing she wants is you standing at her side as her maid of honor."

"No way. No." The words are out of my mouth before I even process them. My eyes snake back to the clock. "Sorry, but no. I can't. And now, I have to go. Lock up when you leave? Thanks for helping me clean, Spencer. Bye."

I run out the door faster than the last time I was fleeing for my life from the cops, leaving Spencer with his mouth open and his eyes wide. I feel like I'm in that moment again, escaping from agony. He should have known already that I wouldn't be able to stand at her side while she pledges herself to someone else. I mean, I never told him I was in love with his little sister, but still. It's been four years. Why would she even want me there? I slow to a walk as I approach the bus stop, rain hammering down on me, and watch it work its way up the street. This is just ridiculous. He should have saved himself the trouble and reminded Carly that we aren't friends anymore.

Or maybe she's just that cruel to force me to think about her. As if I don't do that enough.

**---**

My probation officer is an ass. They all are, in my experience. They believe they are better than you just because they are on the other side of the law. He talked to me like I'm in preschool and couldn't quite comprehend the confines of my release. No shit, Sherlock, I've been on probation before. It isn't that hard. Behave. Therapy. The usual. I'm so glad I only have to see Jim once a month. Unless he calls me. God I hope he never calls me.

I get off the bus half a block from my apartment building, sipping the shitty coffee I bought at the shop across from the probation office. I have like two dollars left. I need a job. Luckily, that's also part of my probation, so _Jim_ has to help me find one. That means he's going to be calling me. Damn it. The lights are on in my apartment, I can see from the street below. That's never a good sign when you're in my line of work. No, the line of work I used to be in. Because I'm not anymore. And I'm not going back to it. No. I creep up the stairs like I don't want to disturb whoever is invading my privacy by holding up in my apartment. I inch over to the door and test the knob to see if it's already unlocked. It is. I rip the door open and fly in, ready to kick some ass.

Ass-kicking doesn't happen to be required, though. Spencer Shay is propped up on my couch with a Nintendo DS in his hands and a bucket of fried chicken sitting next to him on the floor.

"Why the hell are you still here?" I demand of him, slamming the door shut behind me and stretching over to the couch.

He glances up with a smile. "Hey, you're home."

"No shit! Why are you still here?" I snatch the bucket of friend chicken and steal myself a piece. Just because I don't want him here doesn't mean I can't cash in on the perks of his presence.

"I can't leave until I get you to be Carly's maid of honor." He shrugs, setting the Nintendo DS off to the side. "It's the one thing she really wants. How can I give up after one shot?"

I plop down exhaustedly on the couch, taking a second piece of chicken. "I don't know, tell her you tried multiple times and I'm just that stubborn."

"You know I suck at lying, Sam." He says, which is true. I tried to teach him once and he completely failed when it came down to the wire. "Besides, I want to try my best for her. I love Carly. You do too, you know you do."

I glare at him over the bucket. "It's been four years. What makes you think I still love her?"

"Love doesn't just go away." He shrugs. "Especially not when you were best friends with someone for eleven years. Four is not enough to counteract eleven."

I roll my eyes. "That's another question. Why would she even want me there when it's been four years?"

"Because she still loves you. Because she still considers you her best friend even though it's been four years."

"She does not."

"She does." Spencer insists. "She's been engaged for almost six months and she had all of her bridesmaids picked out, but she left open the maid of honor slot. I asked her who was going to fill it and she said 'my best friend'. No lie."

We sit there in silence for several minutes as we both think about this. One person doesn't break contact when we live so close together. This was a joint effort. She stopped calling me too. So why would she still consider me her best friend? Why the hell would she want me at her wedding in the first place? There's just no way. I was in love with her, that's why I still think about her. But she wasn't in love with me. There's no need for her to pull me back into her life. I'm sure she's made new friends by now.

"I can't believe she wants me there unless I hear her say it." I mutter and wish I hadn't since Spencer's face lights up.

"That can be arranged." He announces. "I'll just call her and-"

"No!" I protest. "No! It can't be like that."

"You want to just randomly bump into her in public?" He questions, like that would be absurd.

I nod enthusiastically. "Yes! That could work. That way it isn't forced and it isn't like a blind date or something. It would be just that, random. Accidental."

He frowns. "Okay. Sure. Well, I think she's going shopping tomorrow. She said something about needing a break from everything the last time I talked to her. She usually goes shopping when she says that."

"That's not definitive, though. I need a for sure kind of thing." I sound like I actually want to see her. Maybe a part of me does. Or maybe I just want to stalk her.

"Its kind of definitive. Just go to the mall tomorrow around lunch. She stills shops at the same stores she used to. You've gone shopping with her, just work with that." Spencer offers.

"You want me to wander around the mall for a couple of hours hoping to run into her?" I ask. "You really think I want to waste my time?"

"Hey, it's the best I've got unless you let me set up a meeting." He says.

I shrug. "Fine. I'll go. But if I haven't seen her by one, I'm done and you'll leave me alone, right?"

"Nope. If the mall doesn't work, I'll try to find you more of a sure thing." He hops to his feet and shrugs on his coat. "Guess I'll leave for the night. I'll be back tomorrow if I don't hear from Carly that she ran into you."

"Whatever."

"Bye, Sam." He opens the door and stands there for a moment, studying me. It makes me feel really, really self-conscious. "It's good seeing you. I mean that." With that, he leaves. I drift into the kitchen and fish out the last of the rum. It's been a long day. And tomorrow I have to go to my first therapy session and stalk Carly Shay. Yay. Eye-roll.


End file.
